“There she is, Ginger, standing under the “No Parking” sign,” homicide detective Sheena Washington said from the back seat of the yellow cab.
“Bitch is gonna rabbit sure as shit, Sheena,” staff sergeant Virg — Virginia — Stoddard, whipped the undercover vehicle to the curb.
Juanita Clarisse Rucker, 19, seven years a whore, had a RAP sheet longer that a porn star’s dick and exactly like the last time Sheena had arrested her for murder, she remained dumber than owl-shit. That case hadn’t stuck, but this time, they had four witnesses ready to swear Juanita had gunned down Manika Rucker, a competing whore, the night before. They also had the murder weapon, recovered from a dumpster with Juanita’s DNA all over the thing.
“I outran her ass before, partner.”
Whores usually develop instincts – when to run, when to negotiate — but Juanita was stuck behind the door in whore school when they did the part about common sense. Years of smoking the linoleum didn’t help.
To distance herself from competition that evening, she’d wandered a half block further east on Skillman. In the blazing humid swelter, she slouched at curbside in six-inch spike heels, her yellow shorts exposing the lower half of her ass.
When the yellow cab wheeled to the curb, Juanita was out to mental lunch. Sheena bailed out of the battered relic and had tossed Juanita on the hood in two seconds.
“Ain’t did shit, mu’fuckers,” Juanita grunted.
“You learn that line in fuckup school?” Stoddard stepped up on the sidewalk, waving her badge.
“Juanita ,” Sheena said with practiced language. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Manika Rucker. Anything you say…”
“Oh fuck me,” Juanita wailed.
Stoddard grinned, “Not tonight dear, she has a headache.”
That should have been it. Juanita would have been released on a pitifully small bond, most of the witnesses wouldn’t be available at trial time, and the judge would have given her two years’ probation.
But oh hell no. Juanita had been watching those dumb-assed police shows on TV. She broke east on the sidewalk, veered across Skillman, fell on her face, tore the ass out of the yellow shorts, skinned a knee, and narrowly avoided being run over by an old F150 driven by Oscar Ramierez, down from Skeeterville looking for pussy while drunk as a blind orangutan. Ramierez skidded into a utility pole, broke his nose and totaled the F150.
Juanita was caught — again. Stoddard slipped the cuffs on her at curbside and called 911 for an ass-patch ambulance.
Preceded a full yard by his beer belly, a uniformed patrolman parked his cruiser and strolled over.
“Jesus Christ, Sheena,” he said. He was fortyish with about a year’s hair left. His name tag read “L. Griffin”. “Another fuckin’ tentacle off the arm of organized crime.” He waved a car load of gawkers to move on. “It took that goddamned taxi and a dog and pony show to bag this bitch. Seems Homicide oughta have somethin’ more important…”
Sheena peered over her gold rimmed half glasses.
“Dude, somethin’ you oughta fuckin’ know. When me and Stoddard came on tonight, we spent a whole damned hour discussing whether we gave a rat’s ass about what dipshit, lard-ass Griffin thought about how we handled a felony arrest…if you get my drift. So when you’re finished assisting the driver of that fucked up F150, kindly haul this beat up young lady to jail and do your damnedest to keep your ass outta our business.”
“Damn, Sheena, jes’ fuckin’ around.”
“Griffin, you got two jobs: dumbass cop and dumbass comedian and you aren’t worth a shit at either.”
*
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, lied to and about, and frequently misunderstood. Having published over a hundred short fiction pieces via various venues, published a novel in national paperback: Burn Sugar Burn, and having an anthology of short stories on Amazon: Biggest Balls in Sanderson County, he’s currently retired to a dusty North Texas ranch where he doesn’t much give a damn if school keeps or not. You can find him at http://www. bareknucklethoughts.org/
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